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The last thing that I can do is to say that I am a failure. I can acknowledge my mistakes and misdeeds. But I cannot allow myself to not believe that tomorrow I can turn it all around. If I do I am dead. I am my families final chapter. They live within me. I am their history. Their entire lifetime all within me. Does it matter to the world? It matters not. They meant something, their lives and the dreams they instilled within me. I am their future as well as their past and I have gone fallow, Deep down within under the rubble of a life collapsed is the same little boy that would run to the comfort of his daddy's arms to feel the love that was too quickly extinguished by the rueful circumstances of unstable life. In the end, I found much to our mutual regret that I had not cared as much for him as he did for me. At least not till he was past caring taken away by the inevitable natural cycle of birth and finally death. To late, my heart poured forth once again what it dare not admit while he was alive. Such was the great degree of my latent fear within. A fear that my sense of being in love would no longer be welcomed as an adult. A fear that I would have to surrender to the crushing mark of being a failed son. The one and only that could not outgrow his father long and ever widening shadow. In that I felt that I had truly failed. How could I not? He was a much greater man than ever I could have imagined. Than I found that I ever could be. Great because despite all the bad hands that he was dealt in life, he continued to persevere despite insurmountable odds. Angry sometimes? Sure! But never despairing always heading forward despite sheltering both my mother and I despite his own meandering inner flaws. No monument in my estimation could ever be built high enough to match his humble stature. A man who lived in the shadow of that larger than life personality that he himself created. Someone that despite how brash and brusque his unrefined manner appeared to me at the time would much later elicit posthumous comments of how that same demeanor would be sorely missed. Someone that many from all walks of life felt that they could call friend. This was the pattern that defines the direction of the weave of the cloth from which I am cut. My father. Someone that I so often regret the loss of and harbor that desire to be beside as I once was before. Just to reach up and find his warm hand holding my own yet again.
The small truck came to a halt three streets over just within the field of vision allowed by the canopy of trees that lined the streets far below some ten stories below. The most notable part of it being the yellow flashing lights that had caught his attention. Most of the horizon having been sequestered in Summer green. This was his day to play the role of exhausted past all reasonable possibility of useful activity. The cushion of gray that seemed to despoil the day before noon was barely a memory now. Hazy blue emptiness surmounted all by the faint hint of an airbrushed horizon. It was a different day completely. He was clueless now how to occupy his time as no occupation seemed fit to engage in. All occupations being essentially worthless to change his essential situation. He was old growing older every minute. The notion of attaining success was a topic clouded over by cynicism. A cynicism that was not without a certain degree of factual support. Three different careers had come and gone. The fourth was merely a hint of several vain hopes wrangled together from experiences long past. A sort of archive of topics checked off on a paper list. One that had not turned yellow enough with age to be illegible. The youth within him refused to be evicted. It lived in the here and there like a squatter ever ready to plan its umpteenth takeover of all things downtrodden and depressed. Yet fortune seemed ever elusive not allowing it to take a a foothold. Where was the world of lurking possibility as he had once known it. Now it was simply a bunch of empties littering the street.
While he was amidst his chat the emptiness of the sky just outside his window had birthed some small white clouds that as he caught him with the corner of his eyes were sailing just overhead out of sight. Was his brain boiling up the temperature just above him? It was not an obscure notion that could be discounted that one's mood was ever the oarsman of one's fate. No doubt this present tense could not be seen as anything else but being becalmed. The hermitage of this small apartment sequestered format he street a refuge from reality far below. A woman's nightmare of inflexible orderliness and massing dust balls. The kitchen floor had not received a good scrub in nearly ten years. Carpets stained and worn like the ragged hems of the threadbare black jeans that hung clean upon closet hangers. Smelly old black socks hung out like guest towels.Time had stopped in the last decade. This had become a waiting room for passage to the great beyond. He was just another face keeping busy till his number was called. The previous night after the exhaustion and two refrigerated beers had stopped off the hard shell of his habitual indifference he lay in bed under the cool sheets naked. What did humans really have to look forward to that was not simply a sensation driven experience confused with something vaguely animal. Desire? Love? Companionship? All seemed established and nourished based mainly on the expectation of physical sensations? Desire involved touching or being unexpectedly touched in a manner that one had long repressed. Love was the embodiment of a reliable embrace provided at all costs in any situation. Companionship maybe two hands clasped on into the other? but certainly the calming of anxieties wrought from animal vulnerability to the unknown. Or the paucity of the other two aspects of a closer more intimate relationship. His concept briefly explored his mental focus snapped into itself like the sound of a lady's compact snapping shut.
The world was to be viewed and the chaos that lurked around its edges respected. Yet no longer indulged in. The sky above him would vary at the whim of fate but there was very little remaining that had not already been charted out long ago. He sat in his easy chair waiting to be proved wrong and confident that behind all the barriers that were long tested that this was not ever going to be a possibility. This was not to say that he had not abandoned the notion of the opposite sex in his mind. The mind is the great builder of proper fantasies that while they may involved drama yet would always end in an expected happy conclusion. Yet this would inevitably evaporate by the next day no matter the positive level of confidence in one's calming self assurance the night before. This gerbil was firmly locked in a cage of his own design. Such mechanisms ever proving to be impenetrable. Even if one knows where the keys are hidden.
Roy could see it coming from miles away. All his life it was the same? Sitting in a movie theater by himself he felt normal. Once he stepped out intuit he light of day he was lost. It didn't matter what the movie was a bout or the stars that were in it. Of course, like anyone else, he had his favorites. The world outside of that gave him palpitations. He could feel his heart pumping through his ears. The sheets would be wet from sweat each morning. No matter what he tried he was always back on the same old merry go round. He couldn't hold down a job. Sooner of later he would get laid off. Not because he was a slacker! But perhaps, he took it so damn seriously enough that he would piss off his fellow coworkers because they didn't. And that threw them off their game. But once he got back to the shack and shoved a VHS or DVD into the slot he relaxed upon one of this overstuffed threadbare 'Barqa-loungers' he was back in a pleasant limbo of another person's life and not his own. Of course, that person did not exist. It was a very expensive patch of the collective minds and efforts of scores if not hundreds of others. It was always a strange mental calculation to add up the number of movies he had and multiply them by an average cost that was taken from sources that chronicled their making. If one took the number of films that a given production entity handled per year and multiplied that further against the result already arrived at then you might get an idea of what these characters were worth individually speaking. A useless mental calculation to be sure.
It had of late come down to a point of desperation as Roy's peculiarities had been getting the better of him. Though he had never allowed himself to go so far as adopting the style and dress of any of the current movie avatars that came and went each half decade he would ten to adopt their scripted mindsets. It might be said this made Roy in line with a favored technique of getting into character. But society did not look favorably upon those who reached too far into the collective fictional narrative other that did not truly exist. The average employer wanted workers that were mentally uneventful, slow and steady whose greatest aspirations in life was to show up on time and work blissfully towards that day at the end of a week when they would gratefully received their paycheck taxes deducted. Those were the only waking dreams allowed by the current culture. All others were shown to the exit doors. That shared manifest destiny of the cataclysmic antihero might work on the page but stayed perpetually unemployed. The unintended consequence of this condition being that any lasting relationship with women was removed from possibility. The modern female too independent in her needs unlike the railroad track prone maidens of a century or more past. A solid home powered by a good steady paycheck was all the romance that most women sought though some considered that though all romance was dead in the current era it was no fault of their own. A fit male for breeding their fondest desires should come pre-equipped in both stamina to endure the most tedious of daily regimens and them return home reliably at the prescribed hour with mouthing more than the needs of his spouse predominately filling his universe. To Roy's current mental mindset, another futile mental calculation.
The daily procedure of life degenerated into one where at a certain point the imagination of Hollywood having gone brain dead for the possibility of producing anything particularly novel that hadn't been serialized in some was too many times previous had come to an effective halt. The invigorating feeling of stumbling back out into the light of day of old where one was fresh with plot heavy ideas posed in the corollary of the theme of the particular afternoon matinee needed no further mental energy. Too many of the same gambits explored by the big flickering of movie screen illumination. Where was the former bond of vision that he in the audience had once shared without he director in figuring out the novel plot line and being truly amazed or sometimes alternately disturbed by it stultifying implications? Now the cinema was merely a steady heartbeat of explosions on demand anchored betwixt hackneyed dialogue and a reliable twist int he end where the nemesis was reliably scheduled to by some incomprehensible means return back essentially unscathed bearing an increased amount of enmity for a go at round two of essentially the exact same thing. Imagine if in could bearing children that were cookie cutter copies of the first that you have born and raised but differentiated only by suspiciously similar names?
The rhythm of life for most was conducted by amazingly simple standards of routine behavior. There really wasn't much complexity when one eliminated the inner workings of the assigned tasks each portion of society fell into. Each operated by he demands of inter connectivity to produce a complete organism of a cellular composition that heeded only the demands of the greater collective. Resources were doled out accordingly to a pyramid system in which those who took an active role keeping surveillance over their fellows in terms of monitoring the constancy of behavior and weeding out the deviants was considered of prime importance to keep the great worm of society inching forward rather thank stalling. The macrocosm of same mirroring any given particular example of the species that was in essence descended from successive direct parentage of a similar species over the eons under the phylum of plumbing dependent. The human body a maze of interconnecting pipes and open spaces where the balance of hydraulics reigns supreme. Any tampering with flow leading to a stoppage or inequality of expected pressure having to be resolved. Thus the 'bread and circuses' management of social diversion being key to the husbandry of the species. Where the Romans might have solved a problem on terms of the vitality of their empire by providing unwanted captives to die in the arena as a public spectacle. The modern era provided perpetual reliable boredom as an element of fostering both the flow of goods and the dumbing down of the aspirations of the viewer. By the sixth of seventh decades of existence given the perpetual burden of ennui, most were ready to fall away like dead leaves to make way for their children's children to take up the dully flicking torch of meaningless existence. Given this reality, Roy felt that it was not unreasonable for him to demand a certain base level of entertainment on the fringes. The truth was that you could only bore everybody so far without occasionally adding a little spice to the same old stew.
The dark halls of public amphitheaters suited the nature of a personalized solitary enjoyment of common cultural celebration of the same old same old without endangering the whole with mutual contact. Isolation was after all the best way to hobble and possibility of deviating from the main game plan. So Roy felt as if he was being carried along in a great river of others that like the current of water of a great tributary was rapidly being him towards the inevitability of the falls. He had to wonder to himself how many others like himself in these auditoriums were as fully aware of this fact as he was. The big budget spectaculars were assessed with care based upon the likelihood of their trailers being too suspiciously as a blatant repeat of the same old well worn franchise waypoints of story and plot. Occasionally one might be surprised but the apogee of the reigning superstar too often leaked the fact of the ingrained repetitiveness to be warily avoided. Even the occasional foreign epic that could sneak through the tight network of distribution too often turned out to be a veiled variety of the expected pattern. It was inevitable that the only choice that this discriminating movie viewer had control over was the repetitive recitation of the lines of favored characters that were too often renewed again, and again and again. Roy sensed his psyche was unwinding slowly losing power like a windup toy. There was only this society to contend with or its total absence. Something that could not implicitly be shared with others because of course everyone had been crafted into the same state of hive-like mind. A consciousness that could only be escaped by the extreme poles of death or complete and total chaos. Not much of a choice feeling ones ever chained to that same old set in the twilight of the cave wall.
In this culture little white boys cry while little girls don't. It is a shock to see this happen. But then is exposes something unexpected. A truth to the light of day. Little boys are put in an impossible position of not being able to express themselves as males where in a feminized world little girls have no restrictions. It has become a bygone appreciation in this culture to celebrate masculinity as an inherent virtue. In fact it has been demonized. Violence is accepted as a form of ethnic self-expression for both sexes. But is considered taboo for the most excluded segment of anyone of white Aryan Christian European heritage. The dogma taught being that they are most responsible for all the social ills of the current world. The actual historical truth suppressed being the exact opposite. Western society allowing itself to be overwhelmed by the fact of an internal cultural killer virus superficially referred to at ground level as organized Judaism. The cloistered fact of same violating the convenient conception of labels suggesting old rivals so much as covert alliances of several 'desert based' religious philosophies that stretch back literal eons. The serum distorting the natural inclinations of male and female in terms of producing healthy intellectual savvy healthy generations being amorphously termed as Liberalism or Political Correctness. Essentially crafty programs that have been carefully devised to program the host population from cradle to grave into self-destructive mindsets and self-defeating actions. The equivalent of gaining poser over the most important and influential centers of control over society and dissolving same much in the manner that an organism is devoured slowing being bundled up in a web by an arachnid. Toxic notions bombarding the culture incessantly through the destruction of the minds of the young with insidious half-truths that invert the perspectives in a manner characterized by authors like George (Blair) Orwell. We of the most sullied demographic are in a war for out own survival with people that nestle too comfortably among us that seek out annihilation.
The knee jerk reaction is too call this absurd of course. Even to suggest such a theory in current society being termed unacceptable. That in itself is the most telling clue. If you wish to find out an inescapable truth then start with the actions of those who anyone is not allowed to question as to their culpability for any untoward action. The penalty that the questioner faces of course is an instant form of societal enforced exile. The reason for the fear of same being so prevalent in European heritage whites being that the sledge hammer of the popular Liberal dominated media constantly fashions scenarios that offer only total destruction through negative branding of any personage that does so. Like any other long lost empire of old gone senile through its own decadence the United States has submitted itself to its own destruction by falling prey to those who would subvert it through guile. At one time without he help of mass technology literally building a false narrative upon a well-crafted a false persona taken from a time of two totally unnecessary world wars that only served to destroy the best elements of Western culture. Then replacing them with moral equivalencies that only serve to hasten a final and complete genocide of anything 'white'. The most absurd part of this unthinkable crime being that the key element being the enfranchisement of dogmatically infertile 'white' females as the most dominate gatekeepers encouraged by false notions of social victimization. The European part of the species doomed to extinction because what was once termed as 'the weaker sex' has become its own worst enemy. Whites are caught in a mile of commercially funded media that is total toxic garbage. They send their children to schools that discard traditional topics promoting functionally self-survival and replace them with this media harangue that elevates the lowest common denominators of society as a model of exemplary behavior.
This is by no stretch of the imagination an accidental situation some of unintended consequences as one might inadvertently mix two substances unadvisedly together to create a poison. Take any given segment of key element of this society in Western countries and find that it has at best been sublimated to the goals of an organized sect that uses the reigning international corporate hegemony as an infallible lever. All one has to do is examine the system of finance that allows this segment to make their wealth out of thin air from the ever increasing sweat of all portions of society that are made to work ever harder to get ever less. A system where the governments of every country on earth are connected by a single system of commerce based upon unsecured debt. The lender merely creating a piece of paper called a contract where the debtor promises to pay future wages in order to get credit from the company store. The role of same eventually becoming a small ruling elite that keep and iron grip on the common people through a government that enforces this cooperate hegemony without exception passing wealth upward and implementing further duress upon the have nots to squeeze them even more. All the while indoctrinating them with a totally inverted viewpoint of the would where they are led to believe that those of their own that resist this tyranny are to blame for it. The eventual goal of this world system being to completely segment all cultures and make them slaves through an interdependence that defiles their national and cultural independence. One group ever encouraged to be spiteful and envious of the other during an interim period as they destroy their own cultures through social and physical attrition. Not just a destruction of the European segment but eventually of every other segment into an ever willing population of domesticated sheep having no defining rebellious traits that would interfere with their own planned use and eventual destruction. Take the analogy of Orwell's world and put Caligula at the helm and find the perfect analogy for the world of tomorrow if it is allowed to continue as ti currently seems to be.
Nothing. No motivation to speak of. The day was nearing the expected transition. Perhaps the hundred millionth one that he had failed to notice? So much much that was new to him as his eyes traced the fleeting direct illumination of the Sun. The clouds passing slowly like derelict prison hulks spewing fractals of cotton candy. The light streaming now like a puncture wound through rays of evening mist. Magnificence blocking the shadows deepening quickly bringing on drama to the otherwise mundane. He held out his hand extending a forefinger to trace the path of the rapidly departing Sun, its chariot galloping West. Struck like an aging toddler reborn back to the previous wonders of childhood yet again.
A solitary soul in a land of vague familiarity. So many hostile stares of young strangers taken aback. "Am I still here?", he silently choked out in awe of their sour expressions. "Why haven't you hurried up and got down to the business of dying?", their malicious glares all seemed to say in an impatient unison. Same places remaining. But not how they had formerly had been. The narrative an accurate voice of family re-pagination. Inner peace disturbed by an unwarranted intrusion of the same old crowd of the impatient. "The world is no longer mine?" Something no longer of my own creation. Something no longer my fault. At least I am not living still in the bloom of accomplishments of a faraway long ago precocious youth. The crack int he world of their self-ascribed fantasy is what angers these self-important immortals. Nothing is more motivating than the fiction of eternal perfection remodeled to reveal a reality of unstoppable chaos! When abandoned by electricity the facts of one's lack to compensate are too overwhelming to bear.
Soap opera bitches proclaiming, "The third successive decade of endless self-empowerment!" Resonating freely upon all the misplaced holiday's TV network's across the land. Is it possible to imagine a real friendship with a female in the current era? Better she run off with my assets as is now the custom. The current era won't tolerate it. No overt fraternization! Their message running out of accompanying 'bread and circuses' to sell it before the impending collapse of society becomes too painfully imminent. All that is planned to be left for the male of the species is to joust imaginary dragons on his X-Box. And for all the women to have all the cartoon men of their dreams to mercilessly berate but still find all of them magically submitting themselves to even more abuse. The parental duty of organized defecation. Essentially the scripted version of the genocide of the modern European. Once the most favored demographic holding the most popularized products un-sellable. Now fools with beanies, the brims turned backwards. All the once great heroes now gone waiting for their few admirers to die off.
Were everything replaced with something absolutely brand new, the absence of the old equivalents still weigh one down. Museums spouting 'heritage' now simply categorical homages to older forms of consumerism and consumption. Whenever suddenly 'over-exposed', women grabbing the own breasts not out of propriety but in embarrassment of fostering disappointment. Modern imagery no longer prone to accidents. And the possibility of being privy to creativity because of same gone forever. The most perfect of women incapable of procreation like any other damned long extinct species. There should be a billboard on every street corner, "FUCK UTOPIA!" The last thing in this universe a man needs is a, "Strong Independent Woman!" No more than his opposite needs those same dubious qualities from him. Those kings and queens of long lost empires that never existed outside the fancy of a terminally perverted mind. "Nice guys No Longer Wanted!" Just an inexhaustible universe of lamentable evil pricks that no ones care one way or another if they die.
It is. Like time past yet quiet. And I am alone now. Totally so. The Sun escapes the clouds stretching forth in the latter part of the afternoon ahead of the approaching dusk. It's brilliance brightens this painfully empty room full and filled too high with a former life's manifestation of passing memory. Of experiences many and brief with those now finally departed. Dust no longer of a lineage their wanting presence. The shadows are too deep reaching down into that insatiable emotion that I wish hide. Age has been the curse of bitter sorrow. The vows of youth all betrayed.
So many faces long gone from exact representation within and swept into the past. And it will not stop its slow slide into oblivion until I along with all the others are long gone. I am blinded by the last attempts of this Sun to imitate a suggestion of midday. The shadows soften behind the intensity of glare blinding me and yet the plethora of contents of this room have become merely so. They have lost the inertia of their mental continuum and are merely things. Suggesting many others that have disappeared years and eons before them. Objects that now belong to me but are not mine to give. The fruit of my father's life's work and the sore pitiful remnants of his tenuous existence. And that of my mother's endless creativity expressed through its arrangement. Compositions in life as they were upon paper and canvas. Keepsakes that grow ever more dusty, old and inert. Unable to emote. Too late I realize that those human beings that brought them here no longer inhabit them. These artifacts are just dead dumb things that have no name. Things that I have stumbled into along the way to this persisting point in time. I wait for a familiar rustle of another. But nothing. The quiet Sun reaches into my heart with its waning warmth finding only a nervous cold. The ether swims about me. That familiar choking tension significant of fear and regret. Proof that I have been left finally alone at long last.
This unconscious vigil is useless. The old arrangements that I adhere to. The reverence in proper placement of these ritual objects that I bestow in the keeping of them all around me being dreadfully misplaced. The Sun is dying for another day. Is this what it is to mourn? To despise your own blockheaded foolishness each evening as the minutes tick away into insignificance and an accumulation of useless years of them meticulously stacked and sorted? What is left to offer? It is all long spent now. The inheritance squandered. The old fantasies dissipated into thin air. Its truth now inescapable. A firing squad could bring more comfort than this empty knowledge of all this! Where I finally am not. To health to just pass on. Condemned to this lonely cavern where veiled sorrow sucks the life out of one. How much longer? Only charred ashes nearly an hour's drive behind faux stone in a communal crypt. The simile of the morning of one for the other now compounded with interest by its example. Something that though guilty, I refuse to follow. Escape in the most ruthless of ways. Silent and trying to suppress. The most horrible of tortures! To be buried alive within yourself!
The light fails around me and the room becomes dim. My failing vision scans across the horizon of pictures and faces and objects once revered within of their ceremonial cabinets surrounding cluttered tables and permanently emptied chairs. This place maintained to house ghosts that refuse to make their presence known. Phalanxes of fading photographs lined up of trivial lost instants in time manifested into gold. The crutch of inconvenient recollection. A brief mental outline of their import. A memory of shared experience sandwiched within the last occasion of recollection colored with immediate loss. My own life let out of the hole in this balloon as if in slow motion. Item and incident. Chapter and verse. Each one discarded in a glance. Tossed in a hat like a deck of cards in casually useless hands. An unfamiliar hotel somewhere in a city where no one is known. Some say that all this is inert clay of a type that is dug out of the grave. Each night I dig a hole. But by morning it is filled in once again. I am drunk on my own regrets. I who never enjoyed success and had none o show those that I loved. A rat biting a human heart.
I dare not close my eyes for the light fails as the copper disk grazes the horizon. The empty sky above it neutral. Not beautiful nor dark. Just lackluster and threatening to give way. receding into nothingness. I fear that I am too full of memories that I can no longer share. Incidents that relate to no one else's life that I care to know. Speaking French to the Indians. Tiny grim silhouettes on the distant horizon in the direction of where I once worked. Incidents blatantly similar in that instant of the moment taken in from another vantage point. Life is like the wind. Something that pushes past but that you cannot hold onto. Or dare not try. No smiles of satisfaction left for any incident. Only the present tense to confound one. I am the only thing that is alive now. A simile to my own metaphors. I light the lamp in the curio cabinet that is no longer lit. Its contents known to have once had meaning in both some significant event or at the moment of purchase? Strangers to me. I wonder to myself how long I will remain imprisoned? Enslaved to impossible hopes of summoning the life of the past and reawakening in it as if the present is just some wild enchanted fever struck dream. Perhaps that unquenchable rage within will begin to smash and destroy all these things? But still the ghosts will not come to haunt or hell. There in the dark, alone.
How is it possible to carry a woman in your heart that perhaps you may be familiar with for so long a time but that you are assured that you will never ever really get close enough to intimately know? She is very beautiful. Someone whose personal attention in order to ensure their own appearance in order to maintain an inordinate level of sexual appeal to all males seems epic. Yet lives a quite little desperate life deep within? I wonder if this is what it means to be enchanted? There is something very sad about it as well? A sense of isolation that comes of more than just a fear of age. But of a bridge to keep her acceptable to the new society that she now lives within while keeping that same path open back to the old. A foot simultaneously planted in two worlds. A dilemma you say? Exactly.
The age of tolerance is dead on arrival. And now, as if it has been planned, and let me assure you that it has been scrupulously planned all along for many many years! The unstoppable meat grinder of violent chaos is currently scheduled to commence. Consider every legal document torn in perfectly half by an inability of all concerned parties to agree to be tolerant for the sake of true compromise. There is no longer any middle ground. Those who have long been the backbone have awakened from their coma. The new comers have taken hold and demand by virtue of their presence here alone that their own distant ways now predominate. The Devil behind the scenes knows human nature and that in the end it will out! And if you are lucky then you will be forgotten in these times. You will remain invisible in the same manner that the homeless are. But not for long. And I don't mean to say that you and those you love will be safe. But just not a glaring target as first to be destroyed.
Respect for the 'wacked out' notion of multi-ethnic is no longer a saving grace but a delayed fuse time bomb that is rapidly dissolving the former stability of society. One that too many publicly claims is the keynote of this Western land. But now too many 'newcomers' openly claim they want to fundamentally change it, or destroy it to benefit what resembles them. They want to do what so many other previous now forgotten societies tried to do. Take over another larger foreign social unit because it seemed easy pickings. There is always less work involved in stealing the lawn furniture from one's rich neighbor's yard than finding the wherewithal in one's own self to find employment suitable enough to amass resources to buy or build it! The question must be asked that if all these immigrants love the West so much then why don't they stay at home and just change and evolve their own societies? Rather than come over to plunder resources that have been made too easily available to any and all? The most self-destructive policy ever devised by any historical national unit for reliable suicide. The answer hiding behind so many convenient excuses of victim-hood being that it is not in their underlying nature. That is the part that will go down the tubes when most will be unable to be assimilated and will deny the next generation the possibility of becoming so out of a fierce loyalty to what they left behind long ago.
Just because the rest of the world prefers to use an Apple I-Phone dos not infer any sense of lasting community or permanent cult based brotherhood. Everyone once carried a sword at once time in history. Then much later it was a gun. History has shown the results. An organism cannot live with two brains. Two purposes in mind. A country cannot survive permanently divided loyalties! It must come down eventually to a singular vision. This is the unfolding tragedy that we are all living through. The misapprehension that all of humanity is alike. It is not! To consider that it is possible to create a single type of Utopian individual through their eventual de-evolution is not only absurd but it is downright evil! For that is certainly the tyrannical mentality of slavery in its most cynical form. Diversity is not a milkshake but a form of respect following the age old adage of 'live and let live'. What one sees now is eventual mass genocide of one group for another and given the efficiency of technology, a possible and ultimate extinction of almost every other?


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At Cotton Patch Cafe, our managers and team members are committed to keeping it real. We prepare fresh food from scratch every day and we serve it all with a helpin' of Southern hospitality.
Cotton Patch Cafe is a growing brand, and we need great people to join the team. You'll find a fun, rewarding atmosphere where you can grow personally and professionally. Were into taking care of our People-our employees, customers, and our communities. Each of our locations are involved in everything from sponsoring the high school football team to donating to numerous local charities.
So come join us dish up real homemade cooking, in an honest-to-goodness setting!
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17 Mar 2017 03:03 PM EST
Rick Ross may have only dropped his album a few hours ago, but it's already stirring up drama in the hip-hop world. Ricky Rozay released Rather You Than Me at midnight, and fans soon came to discover a few diss tracks aimed at several rap artists, including Nicki Minaj. In his song "Apple of My Eye," Ross claims he warned the Nicki's ex Meek Mill about getting involved with her. She took to Twitter to confirm the news at the time.
Super Model Taylor Hill discussed with allure.com how she was discovered. She stated, "I was discovered on a dude ranch in Granby, Colorado, when I was 14. It was pretty close to where...More
47-year-old singer Jennifer Lopez recently shared a sexy selfie with her 66.9 million followers on Instagram on Thursday. JLO snapped a photo of her reflected in a mirror, sporting baby blue sweatpants...More
-by Laura Tucker, Staff Writer; Image: Johnny Depp (Image Source: Angela George via Wikimedia Commons) Johnny Depp has had a not-so-great past year, and it's unclear if this is going to improve...More


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"They were freewheeling people and drugs were the wheels."
— Warner Bros. Records president Bob Smith
Amir Bar-Lev's rockumentary, Long Strange Trip, about the Grateful Dead, is aptly named for what is arguably the band's most famous lyric: What a long, strange trip it's been. The film takes you on a four-hour ride (much like the band's live shows) but this is not just another indulgent music doc. (read more…)
How did an extraordinarily well-qualified, experienced, and admired candidate — whose victory would have been as historic as Barack Obama's — come to be seen as a tool of the establishment, a chronic liar, and a talentless politician?
That's the question Pulitzer Prize-nominated author Susan Bordo, Ph.D., asked and answered in her new book, "The Destruction of Hillary Clinton" (Melville House Publishing, April 2017). Bordo, a media critic, cultural historian and feminist scholar, presents myriad reasons for Clinton's shocking defeat. The biggest culprits included sexism, the right's attacks on her, Russian interference in the election, and "media madness." (read more…)
My movie pick for this year's Tribeca Film Festival: Hounds of Love ★★★★★
At the start of this thriller, we're introduced to a quiet, picturesque suburb in Perth, Australia where women are disappearing. It's 1987 in this chilling, unforgettable film where killing couple John (Stephen Curry) and Evelyn White (Emma Booth) are abducting young female victims. The characters are based on real-life husband and wife murderers David and Catherine Birnie who killed four women in the 1980s in their home in Perth. The press dubbed the crimes the Moorhouse murders after the Birnie's address.
Much to its credit, the movie shows very little gore. Most of the violence goes on your head—much like in Psycho's shower scene where you hear the horrifying music, spot the knife, see a flash of Janet Leigh's terrified scream. The rest comes from your own mind, filling in grotesque images of what must be happening. Hounds of Love uses slow motion snippets to brilliantly introduce us to the quaint little town. A carefully chosen and well-timed soundtrack merges with the slow-mo to create goose-bumpy fear. This is a shocking debut for writer-director Ben Young. It has the self-control and masterful storytelling you'd expect from a seasoned filmmaker.
Teenager Vicki Maloney (Ashleigh Cummings), 17, picks the wrong night to rebel against her mother. Emotionally distraught by her parent's recent uncoupling, Vicki sneaks out to go to a party. She blames her mother Maggie (Susie Porter), an artistic free spirit, for blowing up their family unit. Vicki's dad Trevor (Damian de Monemas) is a successful surgeon but Maggie felt smothered by him and chose a more bohemian lifestyle. Vicki is having a hard time adjusting despite her loving and supportive boyfriend (Harrison Gilbertson). She's furious with her mom but pampered with gifts by her Dad, including an adorable puppy.
It's easy to identify with Vicki in spite of, or because of, her broody moodiness as a teen. We watch helplessly as the serial killers lure Vicki into their car by offering to smoke a joint with her and bring her to a fun party. They look so normal and friendly. It's not the tired device in a million B-movies where the soon-to-be imperiled character wonders who might be in a scary, dark dungeon of a basement and stupidly goes in alone to investigate. Ben Young's writing is smart and believable. At Vicki's age, I could've been easily swayed to hang with these peeps.
The acting is as superb as the script, cinematography (Michael McDermott), and soundtrack (Moody Blues, Cat Stevens, and a haunting score by Australian composer Dan Luscombe). It all fits together seamlessly to scare the bejeezus out of you. It also offers layered characters. Evelyn is a deeply disturbed woman who should've attended 12-step codependency meetings instead of worshipping John as her higher power. It's reminiscent of girls like Patricia Krenwinkel and Susan Atkins who offered Charles Manson godlike worship and total submission.
Bound and gagged and secured to a bed in the White's home, Vicki becomes their object to play with and taunt. Problems arise when John takes a special interest in this prisoner. Evelyn feels threatened by John's obsessive fascination with their beautiful — and younger — captive. Vicki sees the manipulative hold John has on Evelyn and uses that to her advantage by appealing to the tiny, hidden piece of Evelyn that knows that John uses her. The females in the film are an intriguing contrast: weak, pathetic Evelyn versus strong, self-reliant, resourceful Vicki and her Mom.
After viewing multitudinous movies at Tribeca Film Festival, I cannot get this one out of my head, nor do I want to. It is that good.
Best Feature: Hounds of Love, The Overlook Film Festival
Best Actress: Ashleigh Cummings, Fedeora Award, Venice Film Festival
Best Actress: Emma Booth, Brussels International Film Festival
Best Director: Ben Young, Brussels International Film Festival
Video © Dorri Olds
Dorri Olds: Stephen, you were a really scary sociopath. And you're a comedian, right?
Stephen Curry: Yeah. [Laughs]
DO: Are you one of those people that could get deep into character and then snap out of character on breaks?
Ashleigh Cummings and Emma Booth [in unison]: Yes!
Stephen: Yeah, well that's the thing, that's what I usually do but it was a lot harder on this because of how involved we became and how intrinsically we were working together to make this piece. To see the performances that were coming out of Ashleigh and Emma, it was increasingly harder to pull ourselves away. We were in that reality and the realization, and acceptance, that this stuff happens to real people is a really, really horrible thought. That was one of the reasons we had to tell this story. And we wanted to do it in as respectful a manner as possible. And that meant committing 100 percent to it.
Ashleigh: Stephen was amazing. He'd bring us out of it at lunchtime by playing his ukulele.
Emma: He was amazing! He used to write improvised songs for us with a ukulele, which we have on tape.
Ashleigh: We do.
Stephen: You've got that on tape?
Emma: Yeah, I do. Stephen is actually unbelievably hilarious and brilliant. Just having him there with that energy and humor, was great.
Ashleigh: Yeah, it was dark. It was almost suffocating the amount of grief and the location was a very claustrophobic place to work.
DO: Why?
Emma: Because that's all we could afford. [Laughs] And we were going through this crazy heatwave in Australia.
Stephen: Yeah, we were confined to this small space and it was about 110 degrees—crazy hot. And the material itself was so claustrophobic as well.
Emma: We needed a location like that. It was perfect for it. But it was 30 crew members in there as well.
DO: Did you work on back stories for your characters? Emma, can you tell me how you became so demented?
Emma: [Laughs] I don't know, do you got three hours? I don't even know where to start. I think it started from a very young age. And this love story that started between John and Evelyn's dependency on each other from 13 years of age.
Stephen: Yeah, that's what it is. I think he was a slightly older kid. He might have been 17 or 18 and he found this Evelyn, this metaphor of a bird with a broken wing, that he took under his wing and from that moment on provided Evelyn with the supposed love that she needed. But it was all only an affectation because he's a sociopath.
DO: When did Evelyn have her two kids taken away to go live with their father?
Emma: She basically just left them for John. He kept manipulating her saying, "We'll get the kids soon." Although Evelyn and John met at thirteen, it was a kind of on and off relationship. So, Evelyn is just holding onto the hope that she's gonna get the kids back. She's trying to just appease John the whole time. He's so obsessed, and she's so reliant on John that she'd do anything for him. She gave up everything. What she ended up with was a devastating existence.
DO: Ashleigh, your character's mother had an incredible instinct where she could just feel you. Then there was that scene—a great nod to Silence of the Lambs.
Stephen: Oh yeah. Absolutely.
DO: Did Ben Young do that as dark humor?
Stephen: I don't know if it was necessarily dark humor but Ben has said many times that film is one of his favorites and he wanted to pay homage to it. But we don't want to give too much away!
DO: Ashleigh, in one scene your character's boyfriend doesn't walk towards you. It was while you're hugging your mom. Did he do that out of respect, to give your characters a private moment, or was he just too freaked out?
Ashleigh: A little bit of both. I'm not sure if you see it, but when we were shooting, the dad collapses and the boyfriend stays to comfort him. But also, I think it was out of respect.
DO: A boyfriend can have this weird macho feeling that he should have protected his girlfriend. Was it partly that?
Ashleigh: Maybe. That's a question for Harrison. He's a brilliant actor. He's a very thoughtful and sensitive person and might have built all that into it.
DO: Stephen, was there a back story for John's parents—to show how you become such an evil, no empathy kind of guy?
Stephen: I did a lot of study on sociopaths. Ben and I agreed that John received their love but any kind of "love" that he had received was an affectation. That's all he ever knew. So, that fed his desire for power and control and a need to assume a hierarchy because he never received it as a child.
DO: I imagined John's upbringing like Charles Manson's, whose mother had him when she was a 16-year-old prostitute. Or like serial killer Henry Lee Lucas; his prostitute mother had sex with her "johns" in front of Lucas. Was John's story similar, which might help explain why he hated women so much?
Stephen: Certainly, John felt like he never had control over his life. He saw anything that happened to him as a slight. He thought life was unfair and that no child should have to go through what he did. Thereby, even his sense of order, his need for control, emotionally and physically, and his OCD, made him need everything to be "right." He even orchestrated it so Evelyn was doing the scouting and kidnapping for him. She is creating this order that he is orchestrating. He sees it as "allowing" Evelyn to be his slave.
DO: Emma, what was it like for you when you got off work and went back to your life?
Emma: Stephen would snap Ashleigh and me out of that stuff. There's so much love between us that we'd just hug goodbye afterwards. There was an exhaustion, though, from bringing up that much emotional stuff all day. I'd go home and just stare at the wall and my husband would be like, "Hello? Are you there?" I'd be like, "Darling, please don't talk to me." I'd just sit there so tired but so wired.
Ashleigh: Yes, it tired and wired simultaneously.
Emma: It was bizarre but I wasn't tortured.
Ashleigh: I was.
DO: I would've been.
Emma: What does that say about me? [Laughs]
Ashleigh: For me it was because I was playing the victim. Just knowing that there were other girls who had been in that situation. We were telling this story and I could feel them telling theirs, and fighting for their rights. I don't know how to stop that kind of pain and torture. That was awful and I had to very consciously consider the notion of creation in the face of such devastation. That was the only thing that kind of got me through. I'd get very apocalyptic with my thoughts, quickly. I was like, "Look at all this pain in the world," and it just expanded to a bigger picture thing.
DO: Wow, great answer. Now, about the title, "Hounds of Love," was that because Emma was in love even though it was a very sick love? Was she a hound of love? Or was it because John was feeding the victims to their hound? Or was it a reference to the beginning of the film, when Ashleigh is struggling with her parent's divorce and her father gives her a puppy as a way to express love?
Emma: It's from the Kate Bush song.
Ashleigh: It's about predators and prey, and the reference of the dog.
Stephen: And it's a reference of the hound bought as a substitute for Evelyn's children.
DO: Right, and those lyrics could be about Vicki: running in the night…afraid of what might be. Hiding in the dark, in the street. Totally interesting analyzing that song, and the psychology in the movie. I could talk to you guys all day long about this movie. It was my favorite at Tribeca Film Festival this year.
Emma: We love that.
DO: So many other would've overacted and none of you did. It could've really been ruined by that.
Emma: We were so careful.
Ashleigh: And Ben was amazing in orchestrating that and we kept talking about it.
Emma: For Stephen's character, I don't think there could be a more perfect person to play it. There's so much power in silence. There were times when he actually took that to extremes. He just did nothing and it was terrifying.
Stephen: I'd forgotten a lot of that stuff. [Laughs]
Ashleigh: It's so hard to do nothing.
Emma: It is! But that's everything and it takes balls. You're like, "Am I doing enough? Giving enough?"
Stephen: Clearly you gave it your all. Superb performances. What's it been like to get all these awards and all this attention?
Stephen: Kind of surreal.
Ashleigh: So flattering.
Hounds of Love is now playing in select theaters and available online. Crime, Drama, Suspense, Thriller. 108 minutes.
Hounds of Love
song lyrics by Kate Bush
© Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
It's in the trees
It's coming
When I was a child
Running in the night
Afraid of what might be
Hiding in the dark
Hiding in the street
And of what was following me
Now hounds of love are hunting
I've always been a coward
And I don't know what's good for me
Here I go
It's coming for me through the trees
Help me someone
Help me please
Take my shoes off
And throw them in the lake
And I'll be
Two steps on the water
I found a fox
Caught by dogs
He let me take him in my hands
His little heart
It beats so fast
And I'm ashamed of running away
From nothing real
I just can't deal with this
But I'm still afraid to be there
Among your hounds of love
And feel your arms surround me
I've always been a coward
And never know what's good for me
Oh here I go
Don't let me go
Hold me down
It's coming for me through the trees
Help me darling
Help me please
Take my shoes off
And throw them in the lake
And I'll be
Two steps on the water
I don't know what's good for me
I don't know what's good for me
I need your love love love love love yeah
Your love
Take your shoes off
And throw them in the lake
Do you know what I really need?
Do you know what I really need?
I need love love love love love yeah
Jack, a herding dog, was born in Kentucky and officially labeled a mutt. Part Australian Bernese Mountain Dog, he was mixed with Border Collie. At the age of one, Animal Control removed this malnourished pup from his home and transported him hundreds of miles to Michigan. There, his luck changed.
Surge, cinema's first out gay superhero, rocks it with his new star-studded movie, Surge of Power: Revenge of the Sequel directed by Antonio Lexerot and Vincent J. Roth.
Surge is back with over 50 stars. Laugh at zany antics from Big City to Las Vegas, enjoy familiar celebrities, and learn how intolerance can make you evil.
Watch the Trailer:
Vincent J. Roth, the film's producer, describes the movie as fun entertainment with a clear message.
"As a filmmaker, I am compelled to present our genuinely groundbreaking characters and the fun world we created to a mainstream audience."
The movie's inspirational tagline, "Make a Difference Where You Can," is the moral of the story. But to get there, evil and skullduggery must be dealt with heroically and hilariously.
In the Beginning
It has been over 10 years since cinema's first gay out superhero movie, Surge of Power: The Stuff of Heroes, premiered. Fans have long awaited the sequel of this campy movie with a message. The sequel is an homage to superhero movies and an irreverent send-up of the genre. Surge of Power: Revenge of the Sequel has been well received by mainstream audiences. Viewers young and old have been laughing and cheering during its initial screenings. Fans love the cameo appearances of favorite actors and characters. The inside jokes add to the sublime movie experience—with special treats for the attentive sci-fi geek.
In the Sequel
Surge's nemesis, Metal Master, struggles with his estranged parents (Linda Blair and Gil Gerard) and is tempted to continue a life of crime by Augur (Eric Roberts), arch enemy of Omen (Star Trek's Nichelle Nichols and Robert Picardo), the sage superhero from the first Surge of Power movie. A host of other recognizable stars help Surge deliver the message that good triumphs over evil. Amid the laughs, Blair and Gerard are the heart of the movie, poignantly portraying Metal Master's parents. They struggle with their homophobia and have to face the negative effects it has had on their family—including their son-turned-supervillain.
What Reviewers are Saying
"A leap forward for superhero films."
"A positive role model in the LGBTQ community."
"A film everyone can enjoy."
"Pretty awesome"
"A Must See!"
In this story, we see Surge travel from his Big City home to Las Vegas in an effort to stop his nemesis, Metal Master from destroying Hoover Dam while on a quest for mysterious crystals for Augur. Surge enlists local friends and even Vegas headliner, Frank Marino to help find his way, which results in the inevitable battle. The skirmish forces Augur to emerge from the shadows, causing Omen to join in the struggle. Their epic confrontation awakens The Council, a league of retired supervillains. To battle this new threat Omen must call on her vigilant team. Find out what happens next with cinema's first out gay superhero when legendary heroes and villains clash in this comical, star-studded movie!
The seventh screening of the Surge of Power sequel will take place on Saturday, May 20 from at 2:00 to 4:00 pm as a featured event at Joss Whedon's sci-fi convention, WhedonCon, at Warner Center Marriott, 21850 Oxnard St., Woodland Hills, CA 91367 in the Screening Room. Other screenings and more information may be found on the movie's website, Surge of Power screenings.
Comedy. 90 min. Los Angeles premiere.
How to Accept a Compliment with Grace
Getting a compliment is good for you. Science has proven that people perform tasks better, have improved memory, and feel happy after being complimented.
What many of us don't know is how to accept a compliment gracefully.
If you're getting such a nice boost, why is it so hard?
A couple of frustrating reasons have come to light in psychological circles.
- Your view of yourself doesn't line up with the compliment. Put another way, you could lack the confidence to accept the compliment comfortably.
- You totally agree with the compliment, but don't want put the other person off by seeming TOO confident.
Every human being on earth has likely felt both of these ways, depending on the subject matter of the compliment. At any given moment I feel good about some aspects of myself, and shaky about others. But either way, the compliment can cause me to feel uncomfortable!
I want that to end.
Compliments have too much going to for them to cause angst.
To help me formulate a plan for accepting compliments graciously, I reached out to a number of women I look up to, and asked for the word-for-word scripts they use to make compliment acceptance a breeze.
How to Accept a Compliment
Go Minimal
By Dr. Jessica Vogelsang, Founder of PawCurious
The more I try to respond or fill the space, the more I end up sticking my foot in my mouth.
The Script: I make a very conscientious effort to look the person in the eye, give them a heartfelt "Thank you. I really appreciate that!" and then stop talking.
Return the Favor
By: Lavanya Sunkara, Travel Writer
It's all about reciprocity for me.
The Script: When others give me compliments, I usually say, "Thanks," and if I have something to compliment them about, I will try to do so.
Enjoy the High
By Kaia Roman, author of The Joy Plan
I used to have a hard time receiving a compliment, always minimizing or deflecting because I felt self-conscious and undeserving. But then I learned about the physical mechanisms behind both giving and receiving compliments and I changed my ways. Compliments release dopamine in the brain, for both the giver and the receiver. And dopamine feels like a pleasure rush that is highly enjoyable!
If I didn't let myself truly receive the compliment, I'd be missing out on this drug-free high.
Likewise, if I minimized the compliment from the giver, I'd be taking away their joy by turning an appreciative exchange into an awkward one. So now, when someone gives me a compliment, I think about the benefit they are receiving from that act of kindness and I do my best to amp up the effect so they'll do it again for someone else. The world needs as many compliments as we can give!
The Script: "Thank you, that made my day." or "Thank you, that was so nice of you to notice."
I smile and let the dopamine soak in for both of us.
Go for Seconds
By Dorri Olds, Freelance Writer and Journalist
I was the youngest of three girls and was born a ham. I love attention—thrive on it really. So I've never been one to shy away from any limelight I can grab.
The Script: When somebody gives me a compliment I grin ear-to-ear and say, "Thank you!" I figure that's like positive reinforcement. If their compliment is met with an enthusiastic response, then they will be more likely to compliment me again, right?
Take a Pause
By Jessica Remitz, Managing Editor, PawCulture.com
I am working on taking a beat to curb my knee-jerk "aw shucks" reaction. A friend of mine told me that she'd almost stopped complimenting other women because we're so quick to brush them off, almost to the point of embarrassment. so I think it's important to acknowledge to the other person on how nice a compliment is to hear—because it truly is.
The Script: I have begun looking directly at my complimenter (in a not creepy or adversarial way) and saying, "Thank you for noticing my [item of clothing/well-behaved dog/completed work project]. I appreciate you saying something, and worked hard to [find said item/raise a polite dog/go above and beyond]."
Split the Difference
By Talia Argondezzi, Director, Writing and Speaking Program at Ursinus College
In the case where accepting a compliment feels very unnatural, and almost impossible to do, it can be rude and awkward to just deny the praise you were given. Instead, take a baby step and challenge yourself by trying to split the difference. For instance, you might accept what was said, but then make a funny remark, or even self-deprecating one, but only on something you DO feel confident about.
The Script:
"I like your glasses."
"Thank you. Like Rick Perry, I'm trying to wear my glasses more so people will think I'm smart."
Keep It Simple
By Victoria Schade, Dog Trainer and Author
Since directly turning down a compliment can be a way of telling a person, "Nope, you're wrong about that," I try to accept it gracefully and then move on.
The Script: "Thank you, it's my favorite scarf/blouse/shoes/whatever!" is an easy way to acknowledge the person's compliment, or "That's so kind of you to say," or if someone compliments my writing I might respond with, "Thank you, that means a lot!"
Look Forward
By Aly Semigran, Writer and Editor
I had a recent experience with this with someone saying, "You deserve a good guy." It was a friend I hadn't seen in awhile and I caught them up with my most recent terrible dating experience and they told me, sincerely, "You deserve a good guy."
The Script: I responded with, "Thank you. It's taken me a long time to realize that."
I didn't bitch and moan "Oh there's no good guys out there," rather I acknowledged they saw something in me that's taken me 32 years to accept. I think it's rare to tell someone you agree with them about a positive side of yourself, but I think in this case, especially because so much time had passed, it caught us up on where I am now.
On Giving Compliments
By Cheyenne Gil, Body Positive Boudoir Photographer
When it comes to GIVING compliments (which I also think is a great step in your self love journey), give a compliment that you truly mean, and give it without putting yourself down in the process.
The Script: For instance, say you love someone's hair. All you have to say is, "Wow, I love your hair! It's beautiful," NOT, "Wow, I love your hair! It's so beautiful! My hair is so blah. I need to change it. But your hair is just so nice!"
Now that you know exactly what to say, check out:
How to Get a Compliment Tomorrow, The Level-Up Method
It soon becomes clear that their seemingly carefree skinny-dipping at the beautiful secluded spot, runs deeper. Iris and Catherine are obviously troubled. Sensitively written and directed by Liz W. Garcia, the town and its characters are so palpable, filled with realistic details. I felt like she intimately knew this world.
"I grew up in Ridgefield, Connecticut," said Garcia, "and was haunted by events in that town. I wrote One Percent to get these characters out of their dilemma."
The beauty of this indie is its slow reveal. Under Garcia's direction, the camera zeros in on hints, telling the story through breadcrumb snippets. In one scene, the two actresses subtly convey a hint of sabatoging their well-being. Iris, chain-smoking, confides to Catherine that she's having amazing sex.
But, instead of bubbly, she's under pressure. The weight is knowing the affair is ill-advised. "I'm seeing my thesis advisor. I'm sleeping with him. He's married." Her professor is played by the magnetic Italian actor Alessandro Nivola.
In another scene we witness Catherine, drunk, in a bar, throwing herself at the brother of what we learn later is an important connection. But eventually, the viewer discovers he's manipulating Catherine to garner information that will sink her.
Details of the girls' shared grief boils to the surface, and we see that this is more than typical college-aged angst. They are wading into a torrential storm of self-destruction. Every action they take—pot, pills, alcohol, obsessive sex—is an attempt to feel better. They're numbing themselves because they can find no absolution for guilt that rains down on them.
One Percent More Humid is one of the fine offerings by women directors this year. Through the storytelling, Garcia gifts us with what's lacking in so many blockbusters: the woman's perspective. Temple and Garner rise to the level of A-list performers; they're effervescent and make it look effortless.
Sun., April 23, 4:15pm, Cinepolis Chelsea 03
Mon., April 24, 7:45pm, Cinepolis Chelsea 01
Tues., April 25, 10pm, Regal Battery Park Theater 11
Drama, 98 min.
SEE ALSO: Robert De Niro Said For 40 Years He Has Heard, You Talkin' To Me?
SEE ALSO: List of Celebrities I Have Interviewed and Photographed
SEE ALSO: Helen Mirren Talks About Kissing Stephen Colbert


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Looking for 1967 Thunderbird Seats
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A US judge on Tuesday approved a $4.5 billion deal in which BP pleaded guilty to criminal charges from the 2010 Gulf of Mexico oil spill -- but the British energy giant\'s legal woes are far from over. BP is set to return to the New Orleans courthouse on February 25 for a mammoth trial consolidating scores of remaining lawsuits stemming from the worst environmental disaster to strike the United States. It must still resolve a civil case on environmental fines which could amount to as much as $18 billion if gross negligence is found. It also remains on the hook for economic damages, including the cost of environmental rehabilitation. The blowout on the BP-leased Deepwater Horizon drilling rig on April 20, 2010 killed 11 people and sent some 4.9 million barrels of oil into the Gulf, blackening beaches in five states. BP America vice president Luke Keller apologized to the families of the deceased and other victims at a hearing in New Orleans.\"Our guilty plea makes clear, BP understands and acknowledges its role in that tragedy, and we apologize -- BP apologizes -- to all those injured and especially to the families of the lost loved ones,\" Keller said in a statement provided by BP. \"BP is also sorry for the harm to the environment that resulted from the spill, and we apologize to the individuals and communities who were injured.\" It took 87 days to cap BP\'s runaway well 5,000 feet (1,500 meters) below the ocean surface off the coast of Louisiana. BP pleaded guilty in November to 11 counts of manslaughter, one count of felony obstruction of Congress and two environmental violations. It has signaled it will continue to aggressively pursue damages from rig operator Transocean and well operations subcontractor Halliburton, which BP blames for faulty work leading up to the blowout. Judge Carl Barbier -- an expert in maritime law charged with consolidating hundreds of spill-related lawsuits into the single case -- has left the door open to some shared liability in key pre-trial rulings. Several government probes have already castigated BP, Transocean and Halliburton -- which was responsible for the well\'s faulty cement job -- for cutting corners and missing crucial warning signs. Transocean agreed last month to pay a $1.4 billion fine and plead guilty to violating the Clean Water Act, but it argues that, as operator, BP must accept full liability for the disaster.
GMT 15:16 2017 Wednesday ,21 JunePBoC chief: Protectionism hurts China's financial sector, opening helps
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text:
Frivolous Medical Malpractice Lawsuits Targeted by Medical Justice
Whistleblower readers know my views on the perverse and dysfunctional medical liability system.
Whistleblower readers know my views on the perverse and dysfunctional medical liability system. I have read numerous plaintiff lawyers' blogs, and those of other tort reform opponents, to better understand the issue from other perspective. As a physician, I bring bias to the issue, as do all the players in the game. After 20 years of thought, and some legal brushfires, I am persuaded that the medical profession has the better argument. I also do not believe that we physicians are as strident and ideological as the other side is, but perhaps this is simply because this gastroenterologist has a jaundiced view of the issue. For example, most physicians readily admitted that our health care system, before Obama and the Democrats cured it, had serious deficiencies that demanded reform. In contrast, rarely do I hear or read plaintiffs' attorneys remarking that the medical liability system needs some healing. What I read in their columns and postings is a spirited defense of the status quo. When a physician like me points out flaws in medicine, as I have done throughout this blog, this is an attempt to improve our profession and public health. Indeed, physicians on blogs and in medical journals write openly and often about where our profession is falling short. Reflection and self-criticism are ingrained in the culture of the medical profession. If a plaintiff's lawyer were to publicly advocate medical malpractice reform, then I suspect he would be shunned for his blasphemous utterance, or banished to the gulag for some re-education.
In my tort reform meanderings through the blogosphere, I stumbled upon Medical Justice (MJ), a company that is devoted to protecting physicians against the abuses of the medical liability regime. This organization aims to:
- Prevent frivolous litigation from being filed against a member physician
- Attack internet defamation of physicians' reputations
- Hold medical 'expert' witnesses accountable
I was intrigued and reached out to them to learn more about their enterprise. When a member physician is unfairly sued, MJ gets into the other side's face to alert them that their national organization is squarely behind the doctor. This puts the plaintiff and the opposing medical experts on notice that their actions will be scrutinized and held accountable. There is a yearly charge for membership, which depends upon the amount of protective service the practitioner desires.
Some of MJ's services require the physician and the patient to sign certain agreements, which I think would be problematic for doctors to implement. While I understand why a physician would desire a signed agreement that would protect his interest, I am less certain why a patient would do so. In addition, such a discussion might erode the doctor-patient relationship.
Thus far, they have over 2000 physician members and are in a strong growth phase. I think their fees are reasonable, a fraction of what I pay each year for my medical malpractice insurance. If even one lawsuit is prevented, it would be worth a decade or two of MJ membership charges. I wish them well and encourage Whistleblower readers to visit their site and their very fine blog.
In fairness, I should disclose my relationship with this organization. Admit it; you already think I'm an MJ shill, right? You suspect that I have a 'pay for click' arrangement with them. I must get a kickback for every Whistleblower reader who signs up. Here is the arrangement I have with them, which I disclose publicly.
I am not an MJ physician member and they pay me nothing. They didn't ask for this blog post and the only reward they might offer me is gratitude for having done so. Keep reading because I now must confess a potentially corrupt act as my conscience is torturing me. I did have lunch with their Cleveland rep months ago who rejected my offer to grab the tab and paid for my meal, which cost about 10 bucks. Readers must now weigh and decide if my integrity can be compromised for a free meal.
MJ added me to their blogroll for the usual reasons; they liked my Whistleblower tort reform content. I am plugging them for free because they are the only folks I've discovered who want to put a few arrows in our quiver so our unfair fight will be a little less unfair.
I expect that MJ's services will grow and become more refined as the company matures. If they are successful, then medical malpractice carriers might be willing to subsidize physicians' membership costs.
With so many out there stabbing us in the back, it's refreshing to have an organization that's watching our back.
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Worldwide data on social, economic, and institutional indicators for the past five centuries, with special attention to the past 200 years. These indicators allow research into long-term development of worldwide economic growth and inequality.
Each dataset in this database has a Quandl code of the following formats:
where CLIO represents the Quandl database code, {AREA} is the area/country the measurment is taken, and {ITEM} is the item being measured.
Here are some examples showing how the dataset codes are constructed:


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No Man's Land
Arizona's Meza Azul penitentiary is the pride of the state's newly privatized penal system -- a modern technological wonder, unassailable and inescapable, built to hold the worst of the worst. Yet, inconceivably, one prisoner has managed to breach the foolproof security, set loose the other inmates, and take control of the facility -- holding more than one hundred guards and workers hostage. And one hostage will die every six hours until Timothy Driver gets what he wants: Frank Corso.
A rogue journalist and confirmed lone wolf, Corso wrote a bestselling book about the former U.S. Navy submarine commander who was convicted of slaughtering his wife and her lover in a jealous fury. Now, unwilling to be responsible for the death of innocents, Corso allows himself to be delivered into the bowels of Meza Azul -- and into the hands of a crazed hero turned criminal.
But Captain Driver wants more than the ear of a once-sympathetic writer who will tell his final story tough and truthfully. Accompanied by a cold-blooded hayseed murder machine named "Cutter" Kehoe, and with Corso in tow, Driver pulls off a brilliant and undetected escape, right under the noses of armed government troops as they storm the captured prison. Suddenly a helpless spectator along for the ride on amaniacal cross-country killing spree -- with a tragic and beautiful TV journalist doggedly pursuing the story, heading inexorably into harm's way -- Corso finds himself in no man's land.
If he's lucky, Frank Corso may get one slim chance to escape the clutches of a psychopathic duo determined to go out in a blaze of blood and terror. But if he's not, his own story -- and too many others -- will end abruptly and brutally.
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